


caught in all, the stars are hiding

by LydiaOfNarnia



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairytales, Gen, M/M, Once Upon A Time AU, eion bailey is doing the exact same thing as in canon, lew and dick are snow white and prince charming, lieb does not believe in magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-04 09:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12166071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/LydiaOfNarnia
Summary: Joseph Liebgott has been an orphan his entire life, and he's well past the point where he believes in fairytales. There's no such thing as magic. There are no Prince Charmings, heroes, or justice for the wicked. There are no such thing as happy endings.On his twenty-eighth birthday, he rides into a mysterious town at the behest of a stranger, and is forced to consider he may be wrong.Magiccouldexist. Every resident of this town could be a fairytale character, cursed to remember nothing at all. He could be the one destined to save everyone.Or he could be losing his mind.Either one seems likely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started watching once upon a time for eion bailey and now I can't stop
> 
> I'm definitely not following canon here! There will be a lot of characters (not just from BoB, but the Pacific too) and endgame pairings are much different than the show (no Captain Swan here, team) but I can't stop thinking about this AU, so it had to be written!
> 
> Consider this a prologue... a very short glimpse into what's to come.
> 
> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

The horse's hooves pound against the ground, a steady drumbeat to match the hammering of the prince's heart in his ears. Each breath burns his lungs. He cannot get enough air, not when urgency is choking him, desperation forming chains around his ankles and holding him back from where he needs to be. No matter how fast he rides, he fears he will not get there fast enough.

He felt the pain -- the sudden wave of agony, like his heart being torn out of his chest -- that told him something had gone terribly wrong. He _felt_ his love die. Now, his only hope is that he was wrong... and that he's not too late.

His horse screeches to a stop in the entrance to a meadow. The prince's heart catches in his throat.

In the middle of a field of flowers, there is a group of small men. In the middle of the group, there is a closed casket.

There is no mistaking the figure lying in eternal sleep beneath the intricate panes of glass. Raven hair, red lips, skin pale as snow. The prince would know his love anywhere. In this life or any other, he would recognize him.

His feet hit the ground hard. He cannot bring himself to speak, or even utter the name on the tip of his tongue. He is mute, numb. He is alone for the first time in so long that it feels as if he has lost a limb. He takes a stumbling step forward, and the gazes of the mourning group turn to him.

"You're too late," one of them says. "He's gone."

"No..." He finds his voice again in an exhale of breath, barely able to swallow down his horror. His feet keep leading him forward, towards the coffin, towards him. "It can't be... Lew?"

"The King got to him before any of us could. I'm sorry."

Dick shakes his head in disbelief, barely able to register the dwarf's words. He reaches the coffin's side. Lewis is still as death; his cheeks are colorless, his eyes do not flutter, and his lips do not part for breath. His chest refuses to rise and fall. The life that once danced over every part of him has abandoned him in its entirety.

The prince drops to his knees. He cannot believe what he is seeing. Numbness creeps through his veins like ice. It's is every inch a curse, far more wicked than any the Evil King could cast. The curse of a broken heart is more powerful than any other.

He was not there. He could not save Lewis when he needed to be saved -- he could not even save himself. Now his love has laid the price. Lewis is gone.

One hand rests on the top of the coffin. "Please," he breathes out. For a moment, he is sure he is begging Lewis to awaken; when he does not, is takes a second more for the prince to regain his wits. "Please," he says again, unwilling to tear his eyes from the body of his love. "I must -- I _need_ to say goodbye."

There is a moment of hesitation; then, the lid of the coffin is lifted.

The prince doesn't waste a second before his hands are on Lewis's face, cupping his jaw as he has dozens of times before. This time Lewis's eyes don't spark, and his lips do not twitch in an incorrigible smirk. His skin is ice cold. It Iike touching a statue.

"I'm sorry," the prince mutters, leaning close to look his love in his lifeless face. "I should have been there for you. I should have found you. I'm sorry, Lew."

In a last act of remorse -- the last he will be able to do before grief overcomes him completely -- he presses his forehead to Lew's own. Desperate to say goodbye, he steals a final kiss.

Lewis's skin is icy. His body is lifeless. His lungs are still, but...

His lips... his lips are warm.

The prince's eyes blink open in surprise, and he pulls away with a soft exhale of breath. It reverberates off of Lewis's mouth. No sooner has he done that than a flutter of eyelids catches his attention. The body of his love gives a shudder. A gasp escapes Lewis's parted lips. Then, dark eyes flutter open, widening when they catch sight of the face above him.

"Dick?" Lewis exhales, and the prince lets out a sob of joy.

"Lew," he gasps as Lewis slowly pushes himself up. His hands are tangled in the other man's dark hair; he helps support him as he regains his bearings, blinking dazedly at the coffin and group of mourners gathered around him. It takes a moment for realization to dawn in Lewis's face. When it does, he turns back to the prince, his expression one of unabashed pride.

"Sure took you long enough," he mutters, lips tugging upwards in that infamous smirk. "Thought you said you were going my way?"

"Always, Lew," Dick replies, cupping the back of his lover's neck. "Always."

When they kiss again, this time there is no question that they are both truly, magnificently alive.

Nothing will ever part them again -- of this, both the prince and his Snow White are certain.

* * *

 On May seventeenth, at eight-fifteen in the morning, Joe Liebgott speeds past the welcoming sign of a quaint New England town.  
  
At this point, quaint New England towns hold little charm for him. His job takes him all over the country, small town and big city alike. He's skilled at finding people. Whether that be in a crowded metropolis, or a place where everyone knows everyone, Joe is good at his job. If he's learned anything in a lifetime of treading the fine line of legality, it's that no one gets away from the law. More importantly (to his wallet, at least), no one gets away from him.  
  
He's seen countless small towns. He's torn his way through dozens of pleasant, close-knit communities, like a bullet's track through flesh, in pursuit of whoever he's tracking down that week.  
  
This is a job, just like any other. He's here to find someone, and then he'll be gone.  
  
There's nothing special about this job in particular -- except for the fact that he rides into town on his twenty-eighth birthday.  
  
Another year, another job, Joe thinks to himself. It might be his birthday, but he's still got to work to eat. Birthdays have never been much of a celebration for him anyway.  
  
This is just another job, and Storybrooke, Maine is no different from any other small town.


	2. Chapter 2

Joe’s car engine continues it’s guttural, asthmatic symphony as it rumbles through town. The paved streets are smooth beneath his wheels. One nice thing about this place compared to the big city -- no potholes to screw up his tires.

He's not surprised by the state of Storybrooke. Of every small town he's visited, they all tend to be the same: clean streets, home-grown shops, and close knit people. Even if a few things about this place stand out (it's cobblestones look older than most of the pavements he's seen, and the great clock tower that looms above all the other buildings does not seem inclined to tick), it's looks like any other town.

Children scramble across playground equipment in front of the sprawling elementary school. The town's library is boarded up and looks unused. The sheriff's station has one police car parked out front. The florist’s shop is vibrant and blooming.

 _Real quaint,_ Joe thinks, and scoffs to himself. There’s something about places like this that make him claustrophobic. The thought of staying in the same spot his entire life, never venturing out, never daring, never living… well, it’s never been an option for him. Even if it had, he’s sure he could never be happy that way. Some people just aren’t meant to settle down, and he supposes he’s one of them.

As Joe's jeep rolls down the street, curious eyes follow him. This place isn’t a footnote in any tourist booklets. He can’t imagine they get many visitors, and now that they have one, people don’t know what to make of him. It is impossible to ignore how much a stranger in this town sticks out.

(Feeling like a crooked nail isn't unusual for Joe. He isn't afraid of not fitting in; he can't remember a time that he has.)

Joe isn't impressed with Storybrooke, but he's also not going to underestimate it. He knows from experience that the smallest places can be the most difficult to track down a person who doesn't want to be found.

When he pulls up in front of the local diner, his stomach is already growling. His last meal was in Newark, sometime yesterday night. Joe wanted to get to his next job on time, so he hadn't bothered tracking down breakfast this morning. _Guess this is my birthday meal,_ he thinks to himself as he slams his car door behind him. _Hopefully the food's decent._

The bell above the door trills as he pushes his way inside. Joe doesn’t flinch at the noise, nor the questioning glances of the handful of people who look his way. He steps inside, eyes already roving over the patrons. He’s looking for someone in particular, but he doesn’t have much to go on.

“Hi,” chimes a sudden voice, so friendly that it’s jarring. Joe’s gaze swivels back to the lone waiter in the diner, who’s straightening up as he wipes his hands on his pants. His red-and-white uniform shirt is as bright as his hair, ginger and unruly, cut a bit too short. He is freckled, pale, and wide-eyed. The smile he wears leaves nothing hidden -- genuine friendliness, mixed with curiosity about the newcomer. Typical small-towner.

“Welcome to Wild Bill’s,” says the waiter, whose uniform is embroidered with the name Babe. “You looking for a table, or something to go?”

Joe lets his gaze wander around the diner again. “I’m looking for someone. You know a guy named Talbert?”

The waiter lets out a bark of laughter. “Floyd? Sure I do.” He gestures to a booth by the window, where sunlight is throwing it’s lone occupant into a cascade of brightness. “He’s right over there.”

“Thanks,” Joe nods. He’s about to turn away when something else hits him. “Hey, you got any waffles here? Chocolate chip, maybe?”

“Only the best in town.” The waiter grins at him. “Comin’ right up.”

Joe shoots him a wink, and makes a beeline towards the booth. The man he’s scheduled to meet has his head buried in a book in front of him, not looking up at his approach. Man, Joe considers, might be an exaggeration; the closer he gets to Talbert, the easier it is to tell that he’s only a kid. He’s got a youthful face, and cropped haircut, and bright green eyes that make him look even younger. As Joe approaches the table, he feels his stomach sink. This Talbert doesn't look old enough to shave yet, let alone hire a bounty hunter.

Only when he slides into the other side of the booth does Talbert look up. His expression betrays surprise for a split second before he breaks into a grin.

“You Floyd Talbert?” asks Joe. The teenager nods, offering a hand.

“That's me. Thanks for coming. Hell of a response time you got.”

Talbert only called him last night, just as Joe was finishing up a parole job. He hadn't even had to drive through the night to get here. It's not his most impressive response time, by far -- Joe’s known for keeping his schedule tight. As long as he's getting paid, he can make himself comfortable anywhere for a little while.

(Then, of course, he finds who he's looking for, and it's on to the next case, the next place. He's never stayed in one place long enough to get attached.)

Accepting the handshake, he offers Talbert a close-lipped smile. “Joe Liebgott. Nice to meetcha.”

“I know who you are,” Talbert says.

Of course -- he's the one who hired Joe. But there's something about the way he says it that takes Joe aback, makes him pause to examine his expression. There's an undercurrent to those words, one that goes beyond meeting some _one_ you hired. It's _personal._ There's something Talbert isn't saying.

“You don't remember me,” the kid says, and ruffles a hand through his hair. “That's not surprising. I didn't think you would.”

“Should I?”

“No, not really -- unless you have an elephant’s memory or something…” Talbert trails off, sheepish chuckle dying as silence stretches between then. Joe is staring, eyebrows furrowed, and it's obvious that it makes the kid uncomfortable. He sighs, smile fading. “When you were ten years old, your foster home caught on fire in the middle of the night. You risked your life to find a baby inside and carry him out,” he says, and rushes on before Joe can interrupt. “I know this because that baby was me.”

Joe blinks at him. Talbert blinks back.

“You,” says Joe, before he stumbles, falters, and changes track. “What? Wait, I -- you -- _what?”_

“It was years ago, so I don't know how much you remember --”

“Kid, you don't forget your first _house fire.”_ Joe gapes at Talbert, like he's expecting him to crack any minute and exclaim he's been joking all along. Whatever he's hoping for, it's not forthcoming. Talbert just straightens up in his seat under Joe’s scrutiny. Like he's trying to _impress_ him or something. What the fuck.

It takes Joe a minute to gather his wits again, and push the bizarreness of this situation from the foreground of his mind. “Okay. So how the hell did you track me down?”

“It wasn't easy. First I had to gain access to my adoption records, and my father wouldn't let me have those until I was eighteen, then I had to pay for this program online that would let you track down your birth parents. Only you're not my parent, so I had to lie a little bit. And _then --”_

“So you went through a whole lot to find me,” Joe concludes. “Why?”

“That's the thing,” says Talbert, eyes flickering down. “I've… got a job for you.”

“Kid, are you even old enough to hire me?”

“I'm eighteen!”

Joe looks him over, taking in his boyish face and haircut. If Talbert is telling the truth -- if he really is _the_ kid -- he would be about that age. It's been eighteen years, more or less.

This isn't what he wanted to deal with today. This was supposed to be a job -- simple, in and out, finding someone and then going on his way. He hates it when his past catches up to him. In this case, his past is determined to seek him out.

Joe exhales, face settling into a frown. Talbert doesn't flinch under his gaze. He’s got guts, Joe will give him that. He's tougher than a lot of criminals Joe’s trained the same glare on. Talbert swallows hard, but doesn't break eye contact, and Joe has to admit a grudging respect for him.

“Alright,” he says at last. “What do you need me to do?”

Something clears in his face, like the sun breaking through a sky full of clouds. He looks relieved; for the first time, he looks _hopeful._

“This town is in trouble,” Talbert says, “and you need to save it.”

The best part about it is that he looks dead serious. There's not a flicker of uncertainty in his face, no hint that he's just kidding. He's as frank as he's been this entire conversation, and he's looking at Joe as if he hasn't just handed him the equivalent of a video game quest and is expecting him to get to it. Joe gapes at him, shakes his head, and leans forward in his seat.

 _“What,”_ he says, emphasizing each syllable, “are you talking about?”

“This town is different from anywhere else. And this -- this is going to sound crazy, but you have to believe me. Nothing here is the way it seems.”

“Look, kid, I'm having a really weird day, so if you'd just stop with the weird cryptic --”

“I'm _not_ being cryptic,” Talbert interjects. Finally he looks like he's gone on the defensive -- as if the thought of Joe not believing him is too much to bear. “You want me to tell it to you straight? Fine. Every person here is a fairytale character. They're all under a curse to keep them from remembering their old lives, and the only person who can break it is you. You're meant to save everyone.”

This morning has taken an official turn from bizzare and unexpected to insane. Joe doesn't want to be a part of this. It's bad enough that it seems like he's been dragged to Middle-of-Nowhere, Maine, because of some teenager’s delusion; this teenager is convinced that they have some sort of past connection. Joe isn't looking for trouble, but he knows when it's time to bail out.

“Okay. Great.” He says, leaning back from the table. “Look, I have no clue why you did so much to track me down, but whatever’s going on with you, I can't help. Sorry. You've got the wrong guy.”

Talbert’s eyes go wide as Joe pulls himself to his feet. “Wait,” he starts, but Joe already has his keys in hand. Nothing he says will get Joe to sit back down -- not the job, the fairytales, and _especially_ not the baby thing. Joe reels around, only to come face to face with a bright red shirt.

“Um,” Babe says, blinking, a plate of steaming chocolate chip waffles balanced on one hand. “Going already?”

Joe locks onto the waffles. It only takes a second for his eyes to narrow. They’re a perfect golden brown, with sprinkled chocolate chips and a side of glistening syrup. They’re perfect. Look, Joe's a simple guy. He’s got a limited tolerance for crazy, but chocolate chip waffles can make _anything_ worth it. And these waffles look _amazing._

He's not going anywhere for a little while.

With a sigh, he slides back into the seat.

Babe catches Talbert’s eyes, and they both look pleased. Joe knows it they couldn't have planned it this way, but he feels like he’s been conspired against.

Talbert waits until Joe has a mouthful of placating chocolatey goodness before he even attempts conversation again. “I know you don't believe me. That's fine -- I don't expect you to. Stay in town for a few days and you'll see what I'm talking about.” He sets his wallet down in the middle of the table. “I called you here about a job, and I have one for you.”

Joe scoffs around a lump of chewed waffle. “Kid, there's _nothing_ you could say --”

Talbert doesn't say anything. He slaps a fistful of bills on the table.

Joe chokes.

He has no clue how many hundred dollar bills are crammed into those stacks, but he has to be looking at ten grand. At least. Enough to pay his rent for months, enough that he can go out to eat at the nicest place in New York City -- enough that he could _bathe_ in it. Dear god, it’s _beautiful._

“This is just a down payment. When you find him, there'll be more.”

Joe gapes at Talbert, who coolly returns his stare. For a moment, Joe has no idea what to say; he feels like he’s drowning. All he knows for sure is that he doesn’t want to run around Fairytale Town at the behest of a guy whose life he supposedly saved when he was a kid, but walking away from all that cash would go against every instinct Joe’s got.

There’s only one thing he can do. At last, he manages to swallow his mouthful of waffle, and clears his throat.

“Okay. Who do you need me to find?”

* * *

 

**_:: a long time ago, in a place far away_ **

Their wedding is the grandest the kingdom has ever seen.

Neither one relish the idea of turning their marriage into a great public spectacle, but they recognize it will be necessary. Much of the kingdom is already loyal to them, but they have to trust their kings. To do that, they must know them. If they know them, hopefully they will love them.

So, invitations are sent out to all the land, and their wedding is held on a full moon.

Their vows are exchanged in front of the entire kingdom, but something about the hushed lines of intimacy feels like theirs alone. They've spent so long apart, searching for each other, that being together at all -- let alone swearing to be together for the rest of their lives -- seems like a dream come true. As thunderous applause follows the exchange of “I do”s, Dick and Lewis capture each other’s lips in a kiss weighted with all the yearning of the past year. When they pull away, Dick’s hand is in Lew’s hair; they're both grinning like it's the best day of their lives.

The vows are the highlight of the night, but the party afterwards is nothing to miss. If there's anything Lewis has inherited from the old rulers of his kingdom, it's how to throw a fantastic party. Drinkers and dancers flit through the room, laughing with one another. Strains of an orchestra fill the hall with life. In the center of the flow, the two grooms are locked in an intense twirl, unable to tear their eyes away from each other.

“Dick, I --” Lewis starts, but his words die in his throat at a sudden clap of thunder.

The jovial mood of the hall shatters like fragile glass. People drop to the floor, screams of panic ringing out. The instruments screech. The lights flicker. There is the sound of an explosion.

When the smoke clears, in the middle of it all stands Ronald Speirs.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “Someone forgot to invite me to the party.”

Speirs is an exact incarnation of the rumors that run in undercurrents through the kingdom. The Wicked King has grown dark, fearsome, with needle-sharp nails and silvery tattoos lining his temples. The black leather he wears hugs his figure well; upon his head is a crown of twisted metal. His hair hangs across his forehead, uncombed and unacknowledged. Dark coal rims his eyes. When he bares his teeth, they gleam in the light, lethal as serpent’s fangs.

Mind still ringing with images of his love lying prone in a coffin, Dick steps in front of Lewis, pushing him back. “You are not welcome here.”

“Oh, I know that. Good of you to say it to my face, though.” His lips curl, in disgust or amusement -- it's anyone’s guess. “Very _good.”_

A group of palace guards make a belated start towards him. With a flick of his wrist, Speirs sends them flying across the room. “Your security detail is unimpressive.”

“Nothing compared to yours,” Lewis speaks up, and then chuckles. “Oh, wait, we beat all of them, didn't we? And dethroned you. Do you not understand what exile means, or will we have to remind you?”

Something flashes in Speirs’s daggerlike gaze when it settles on Lewis -- something dark, monstrous. Dick feels his entire body tense in anticipation, but no attack comes.

“I only want to pay my respects,” Speirs retorts with an easy roll of his shoulders. “To the new kings.” He plucks a glass from a startled waiter’s tray, and holds it up in a deadpan toast. “May your rule be prosperous… if not long.”

“What does that mean?” demands Dick. Speirs smirks.

“You may rule the land now, but that will not last. You've taken away my kingdom, now I take away yours. An eye for an eye.”

Lewis starts forward, but Dick holds him back. A low chuckle rumbles from Speirs’s throat. He tosses back the glass of wine before continuing. “My curse will steal away the future. Your kingdom will shatter, your lives will vanish. There will be no more happy endings.”

He tosses the glass above his head and shatters it in midair. Shards rain down on the heads of alarmed onlookers, who gasp in fear. Lewis’s grip is tight on Dick’s hand. Dick can only force himself to focus on the heat of his husband’s body standing next to him, alive and well. Speirs tried to kill Lewis many times, but he always failed. He will fail again.

“We will stop you,” he declares, narrowing his eyes at the ex-king. “Evil will never kill happy endings, and goodness will _always_  triumph. You cannot destroy all things good.”

“I can't,” Speirs agrees. “But I can try.”

Dick gives a subtle nod of his head, and the guards rush forward. The ballroom finally erupts into chaos. Guests who minutes ago were reveling now trip over each other in panic, desperate to flee the room. Lights flicker, a hiss of static in the air. Explosions ring out from all corners, choking the room with smoke. The lights all burn out at once, casting the room into blackness. Dick locks his arms around Lewis and holds tight, blindly leading them away from the chaos.

Just as he thinks they're safe, an icy hand locks on his neck. He doesn't get the chance to gasp. He is not being choked, but nevertheless he cannot speak, he cannot breathe.

“Enjoy your happy ending now,” a voice hisses in his ear. “You are all already dead.”

Something is torn from around Dick’s neck. The ice cold vice grip vanishes.

All at once, the darkness is sucked from the room. The smoke dissipates; the shards of glass littering the floor vanish into mist. As the nightmare around them fades, the baffled guests fall still.

Dick exchanges a wide eyed glance with Lewis, and grips his hand tighter. Dick’s cape flutters to the ground at their feet, his clasp stolen along with the day’s joy.

* * *

 

**_:: Storybrooke, Maine_ **

Joe frowns down at the picture in his lap, studying the face that stares back at him. A broad forehead, ashy blond hair, a square nose and jaw to match. The most striking thing about him are his eyes, bright blue and penetrating. Aside from that, Albert Blithe does not make much of a first impression.

He's also not the sort of man Joe is used to tracking down. Talbert had hastened to explain: Blithe isn’t a criminal, he’s not a guy breaking parole. He’s just missing.

This is the sort of job Joe would refuse to take were there not a guaranteed payment involved. He spends his time tracking down lowlifes. Actual missing persons cases are better off left to the police.

“The problem,” Talbert said, “is that the police don't care. No one cares. Blithe has been missing for a week, and everyone’s acting like nothing's wrong. It's like they've forgotten he exists!”

“Have you considered that maybe he just left town?”

“People don't leave Storybrooke. No one does. The curse keeps then here.”

Joe closed his eyes, and reminded himself of that glorious pile of bills sitting on the table. Eyes on the prize. “Look, nobody just falls down the rabbit hole without anyone else noticing. Someone knows something about this, and I can find out what.”

“Do me one better,” Talbert replied, shoving the money towards Joe. “Find him.”

So, with his wallet a lot heavier and his glove compartment well-stocked, Joe finds himself on an official job in Storybrooke. If there's truth to any of what Talbert says, Blithe’s disappearance has gone mostly unnoticed. Considering the kid’s sanity is dubious at best, however, Joe’s going to take everything he says with a grain of salt.

Blithe doesn't seem like a person who’d go on the run, for any reason. Joe reviews the notes he has about him. Twenty years old, works at the local flower shop, no family in town. According to Talbert, he's never been out of town, and has certainly never expressed interest in leaving.

Yet no one has seen Albert Blithe for a week. How could an average twenty year old just vanish out of the blue, without anyone noticing?

Something isn't adding up, and Joe’s determined to find out what.

His first stop is Blithe’s house. His car is still parked in his driveway; the newspapers piled up on his doorstep make it clear that he hasn't been home in a week. Talbert claims to have already searched Blithe’s house and found no trace of his friend; Joe hammers on the door anyway, just in case.

He gets no reply. Big surprise there.

His next thought is to go around asking the neighbors, but he catches sight of an old woman vanishing into the house next door. Her suspicious gaze lingers on Joe until she shuts her door with a loud bang. Joe doesn't have to be a genius to realize he won't get many answers out of this neighborhood.

So, his next step: Blithe’s workplace.

 _Fleurs des Ètoiles_ is an unassuming, pleasant little shop at the heart of town. It’s colorful exterior fits in perfectly with the quaint cobblestones and homey shops that surround it. Flowers flood out the doors. They line the sidewalk, the windows, even the store counters. As Joe walks into a veritable greenhouse, it's hard not to be awed. There must be hundreds of flowers, but it's not overwhelming at all. It feels cozy, almost, like stepping into your house out of the cold of a winter’s day. It feels safe.

Joe blinks at the direction his thoughts have taken, and shakes his head. The little town is getting to him.

“No, I need -- I need something that fits. How do you say, _'I'm sorry for being an asshole'_ in flower?”

His attention swings to the front of the shop, where two figures stand at the counter. The customer whose back faces Joe is swinging one hand, gesturing to the array of flowers behind him. He's got sunglasses on despite the mild store lighting; his hair is a dark, uncombed mess. Even his outfit, an otherwise respectable suit and tie, is rumpled as if he's slept in it overnight. Taking a step closer, Joe catches the sharp scent of alcohol, and winces. The poor bastard’s got to be sweating the stuff.

The woman behind the counter is maintaining an admirable cool in the face of the man’s agitation. Joe can't help but wonder how often she sees stuff like this. Instead of appearing fazed, she just gathers a few handfuls of various flowers together, arranges them with an artful hand, and bundles them up. It takes her no more than a minute before she's holding out the finished bouquet, and smile on her pleasant face.

“There you go, Mr. Nixon,” she chirps, voice floating with a light accent. “Roses and carnations, with a bit of baby’s breath thrown in for good measure. Your wife's hurt feelings will be soothed in no time.”

“I hope you're right.” The man exchanges a handful of bills for the bouquet, and grips it like he's not sure what to do with it. “Thanks, Renée. You're always a lifesaver.”

“Any time!”

The guy turns around, no expecting anyone to be behind him. He walks straight into Joe, their shoulders brushing on the way out. “Sorry, buddy,” he mutters, but he doesn't spare Joe more than half a glance. Joe takes one final look at the scruffy, pale man before he decides to do the same. Every town has their sad sacks. Whoever Nixon is, it's clear this isn't the first time he's wound up in this situation, and it's probably his own fault.

That doesn't matter to Joe. What does matter is the young woman behind the counter, who's now staring at him with an expectant smile on her face. “Hello,” Renée says as he turns back to her. “What can I help you with today?”

Joe steps up to the counter and places the picture between them. “I'm looking for Albert Blithe. Word is, he hasn't been seen for a few days.”

The girl’s bright blue eyes immediately widen, as if she's come to a revelation. “Oh, you're looking for Albert! What a relief -- I wasn't sure anyone was.”

So at least a _few_ people have noticed that Blithe’s gone missing. Joe isn't sure what this says about Talbert’s credibility. He allows Renée to examine the picture, though she obviously knows who he's trying to find.

“When’s the last time you saw him? Did he mention he was leaving, drop any hints as to where he might have gone?”

When Renée shakes her head, the strand of blonde hair that’s been hanging from her intricate braid finally falls loose. Joe tries not to stare as it unravels well past the counter. He's known women who liked their hair long, but he's not sure he could handle having hair that long. Taking care of it must be hell -- but, from Renée’s otherwise best appearance, she seems to be managing well. She catches sight of the hair strand at the same time as Joe, and tucks it behind her ear with a sheepish huff. “He didn't say much, I'm afraid. Albert is very quiet. He does not share his thoughts, but he is a very good worker. He loves the flowers...” Renée trails off, pursing her lips. “I did not see him leave work. I don't know what he may have said -- but Eugene was here when he left.”

“Where's Eugene?”

“Right here,” Renée replies, and twists around to glance into the back room. “Eugene! _Un homme est là pour parler de Blithe!”_

A second of silence passes before shuffling can be heard from the back room. Renée lets out another huff, shaking her head. “He prefers nature to human beings,” she comments over her shoulder, drawing a smirk out of Joe. They stand together at attention until another figure steps out behind the counter.

_“Qui est-il?”_

Compared to Renée’s bright pastels and sunshine demeanor, everything about Eugene seems muted. From his dark clothing to his ashy coloring, he looks more suited to a library or a hospital than a flower shop. The green mulch stains on his hands tell a different story, however, as does the pack of magnolia seeds he has tucked into his front pocket. He regards Joe with a dark, solemn gaze, and Joe stares right back.

“I'm Joe Liebgott,” he says, taking the opportunity to introduce himself for both employee’s benefits. “I was hired to find your missing employee, Blithe. Do either of you have a clue where he went?”

Renée frowns, while Eugene just shakes his head. “Sorry,” he replies, voice rich with his own accent -- Cajun, it sounds like. “Blithe don't say much. That night he left, he seemed normal.”

“What exactly happened on the last night you saw him?”

“I was staying late at the cash register. It was around eight o’clock when Blithe decided to go home. He hung up his uniform, said he'd see me tomorrow, and walked out of the shop. That's all I know.” Eugene shrugs, shaking his head. “No one seems too alarmed. The police haven't asked any questions.”

Joe frowns. That doesn't make an ounce of sense; every sign seems to indicate that Blithe is gone, if not kidnapped or missing for nefarious reasons. In such a small town, law enforcement should at least take an interest in this case. Maybe the police station will be his next stop.

“Thanks,” he mutters, sliding a plain business card across the counter. “If you hear anything, or think of anything, give me a call.”

Renée nods; Eugene, however, has picked up the card and is studying it. Joe has already turned and begun to walk away when the man’s voice calls him back. “Bounty hunter, huh? Who hired you?”

Joe’s lips twitch. “That's confidential,” he replies, and makes his way out of the store.

* * *

 

Joe pins a piece of paper against the steering, frantically scribbling in his notes. He knows he won't forget a piece of information, but having it written down is more convenient. He doesn't want to miss a thing.

Talbert wasn't lying. Blithe is missing, and the town has all but ignored his disappearance. The kid might be nuts, but at least on this point it seems he's not wrong.

Joe doesn't believe in fairy tales or curses; he especially doesn't believe a delusional teenager trying to convince him that his town is magic. He does believe facts, and those are staring him in the face, as concrete as the money in his bag. There’s no curse on Storybrooke, but there is a case.

Which Joe now has to solve.

He'll admit, he's unsettled by Talbert’s claims. He's often wondered how the kid he rescued turned out. So many kids in the foster system lead unhappy childhoods, but Joe had clung to the hope that the baby he saved might have found a better life. It seems like he has -- adopted by an obscenely rich family, in a picture-perfect town. Talbert looked healthy and taken care of, well-adjusted… except for the fairy tale thing.

So, he's crazy. Adopted, but crazy.

Joe knows from experience that he could have ended up worse.

Crazy or not, Talbert gave him a real case, and now it's Joe’s job to solve it. For that amount of money, he'd find a needle in a haystack. He's going to figure out where Albert Blithe went. Then he’s going to get paid, and get the hell out of here.

 _No problem,_ thinks Joe as he frowns down at his notes. Should be the easiest job in the world.

A sudden rap on his window makes him jump. He curses out loud, both at himself for being so jumpy, and the _asshole_ outside his car who creeps up on him without warning. The man blinking at him through the window is dressed like any ordinary guy, but has an official air that Joe would recognize anywhere. He gestures to roll down the window, and Joe grimaces.

He’s been in town for two hours, and already has the cops on his case. Great.

“Hi,” he says, forcing his most charming smile. “What can I do for you?”

The man doesn’t look fazed. He crooks an eyebrow as he takes in the car, then Joe himself, before casually bracing himself against the steel hood.

“You’re new here,” he says.

“You’re observant.”

The man’s lips twitch. His smirk makes his handsome face even more striking, but Joe steels himself. If he was that weak to a pretty face, he’d have gotten into a lot more trouble in his life.

The officer holds out a hand, and Joe takes it without hesitation. “Chuck Grant, sheriff. You’re Liebgott, right?” When Joe blinks in surprise, Grant chuckles. “Word spreads fast in this town. We don’t get a lot of visitors here… especially not ones that double-park right across the street from the police station.”

“Ahh, damn,” Joe mutters, peering out his dashboard. “Am I?”

“You are.”

“I didn’t realize. Sorry, I’ll fix it.”

“Or I could just ticket you.”

When Joe looks up sharply, he finds that Grant’s smirk has shifted to something more mischievous. It’s only a few seconds before he shakes his head, breaking into a broad grin. “I’m kidding. Fix your car, it’s no big deal. I just wanted to come introduce myself.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Sheriff,” Joe replies. He’s not sure whether he wants to be pleased or confused by local law enforcement’s attitude towards strangers, but he’s glad he’s not facing a parking violation.

Grant steps back while Joe straightens out his car. By the time he’s parked again he half expects the sheriff to be gone, but he’s still there, still watching him. He has very bright eyes, Joe notices -- a blue-green that seem to stare right through you, like the reflection of a mirror. It makes him feel studied, but not uncomfortable. This is far from his usual reaction to cops, so it’s a nice change.

“So,” says Grant as Joe steps out of his car. “Are you in town for anything in particular?”

Past experiences with law enforcement have taught him to hesitate, but Joe gauges the man in front of him. Grant seems nice enough, and doesn’t have a stick up his ass. Maybe he can help. He pulls out Blithe’s photo, brandishing it in the light, and sees Grant’s eyebrows creep up. “Ah,” he says.

“Yup.” Joe pops the _‘p’_ noise, tucking the photo back into his jacket. “I find lost people. I might have been hired to do your job.”

“Good luck with that.” Grant looks intrigued, in the way a person might be intrigued by watching a squirrel cross the street. “Where have you been so far?”

“Nowhere he is. Seems like he just dropped off the face of the earth.” Joe watched Grant with sharp eyes, trying to scrutinize any sort of crack in his mild expression. Grant only looks curious, however. A lot of police don't take kindly to Joe hunting down their criminals, so Joe is wary of Grant’s reaction until the sheriff shrugs and gestures across the street.

Towards the station. Joe blinks in surprise.

“I've got a bit of information on Blithe inside. You're welcome to come take a look, if you'd like.”

“Wait -- really?”

“Sure,” Grant shrugs. “Admittedly, I haven't done much. Blithe is a grown man. Him leaving town wouldn't be the strangest thing in the world.”

 _Without his car?_ Joe wonders, baffled. Nonetheless, he crosses the street in Grant’s stead and follows him into the station.

“You've got to understand,” Grant goes on as he unlocks the doors. “This is a lovely town where not many things happen, good or bad. That's makes my job a lot easier -- but for some people, I can see why it wouldn't be the place of their dreams.”

The lights switch on as he strides into the little station, with Joe at his heels. There's an iron-barred cell along the far wall, a neat desk, and rows of file cabinets lining the opposite wall. Joe steals Grant’s spinny chair, wheeling it over to the cabinets as the sheriff begins to dig through them.

“I don't know,” Joe replies, watching Grant’s long fingers flip through file after file until he reaches the name he's looking for. “I've seen a lot of missing people. I've just got a feeling there’s something more going on here.”

“Do you?” an unexpected voice speaks up.

Joe jumps, reeling around in his seat. Even Grant seems startled; his elbow knocks the cabinet closed with a heavy thud. They both reel towards the doorway, where they're startled by the sight of a suit-wearing figure studying them.

The man is striking. That's the first word that pops into Joe’s head, and he can't think of a better one, because he just is. His dark hair is slicked neatly back from his head. His suit is pressed and well-tailored, somewhere between businessman and politician chic. A gleaming silver watch rests around his wrist. Sharp eyes lock on Joe; he is seized with the inexplicable feeling of being a mouse caught in a trap.

Grant springs to attention immediately, but the stranger pays no attention to him. He's only looking at Joe. Slowly, he takes several steps into the room, heels of his shoes tapping against the tile.

“You must be our visitor,” he says, holding out a hand. “I'm Mayor Ronald Speirs. Welcome to Storybrooke, Mr. Liebgott.”


End file.
